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University  of  California  •  Berkeley 

From  the  library 


from  the 
modern  poetry 
collection  * 
of  james  d  hart 

fa         9L^^tLj      lbr*J 

*•  /V.  f~\ 

L_M:   k*.    f/ts^    L^O  , 








Quos  ego  Persephonae maxima  donaferam." 






CANZON:  THE  SPEAR      .         .         .         .  .         3 

CANZON  :  To  BE  SUNG  BENEATH  A  WINDOW     .         .         5 


CANZONE  :  OF  ANGELS   ......         8 

To  OUR  LADY  OF  VICARIOUS  ATONEMENT       .         .       10 
To  GUIDO  CAVALCANTI  .         .         .         .         .         .n 

SONNET  IN  TENZONE       .         .         .         .         .         .12 




OCTAVE          .         .         .         .         .         .         .         .15 




ERA  MEA 17 



PARACELSUS  IN  EXCELSIS        .         .         .         .         .19 
DE  AEGYPTO  .  .....       19 

Li  BEL  CHASTEUS  . 21 





"  BLANDULA,  TENULLA,  VAGULA  "  .         .        .        ,  23 

ERAT  HORA  .       :;. '     v.        .        .        .         .  23 

EPIGRAMS.    I 24 

II  (THE  SEA  OF  GLASS)         ...  24 



THE  GOLDEN  SESTINA    .         .         .         .         .  25 

ROME  (FROM  Du  BELLAY)       .                 ...  27 
HER  IMAGE  (FROM  LEOPARDI)          .         .         .         .28 

VICTORIAN  ECLOGUES.    I.  EXCUSES         ...  30 


III.  ABELARD  .......  32 



ARIA 37 

L'ART -37 

SONG  IN  THE  MANNER  OF  HOUSMAN         ...  38 





Canzon:  The  Yearly  Slain 


"  Et  huiusmodi  stantiae  usus  est  fere  in  omnibus  cantionibus  suis 
Arnaldus  Danielis  et  nos  eum  secuti  sumus." 

DANTE,  De  Vulgari  Eloquio,  II.  10. 


AH  !  red-leafed  time  hath  driven  out  the  rose 
And  crimson  dew  is  fallen  on  the  leaf 
Ere  ever  yet  the  cold  white  wheat  be  sown 
That  hideth  all  earth's  green  and  sere  and  red ; 
The  Moon-flower 's  fallen  and  the  branch  is  bare, 
Holding  no  honey  for  the  starry  bees; 
The  Maiden  turns  to  her  dark  lord's  demesne. 


Fairer  than  Enna's  field  when  Ceres  sows 
The  stars  of  hyacinth  and  puts  off  grief, 
Fairer  than  petals  on  May  morning  blown 
Through  apple-orchards  where  the  sun  hath  shed 
His  brighter  petals  down  to  make  them  fair ; 
Fairer  than  these  the  Poppy-crowned  One  flees, 
And  Joy  goes  weeping  in  her  scarlet  train. 


The  faint  damp  wind  that,  ere  the  even,  blows 

Piling  the  west  with  many  a  tawny  sheaf, 

Then  when  the  last  glad  wavering  hours  are  mown 

Sigheth  and  dies  because  the  day  is  sped  ; 

This  wind  is  like  her  and  the  listless  air 

Wherewith  she  goeth  by  beneath  the  trees, 

The  trees  that  mock  her  with  their  scarlet  stain. 


Love  that  is  born  of  Time  and  comes  and  goes ! 
Love  that  doth  hold  all  noble  hearts  in  fief! 
As  red  leaves  follow  where  the  wind  hath  flown, 
So  all  men  follow  Love  when  Love  is  dead. 
O  Fate  of  Wind !  O  Wind  that  cannot  spare, 
But  drivest  out  the  Maid,  and  pourest  lees 
Of  all  thy  crimson  on  the  wold  again, 

Kore  my  heart  is,  let  it  stand  sans  gloze! 
Love's  pain  is  long,  and  lo,  love's  joy  is  brief! 
My  heart  erst  alway  sweet  is  bitter  grown ; 
As  crimson  ruleth  in  the  good  green's  stead, 
So  grief  hath  taken  all  mine  old  joy's  share 
And  driven  forth  my  solace  and  all  ease 
Where  pleasure  bows  to  all-usurping  pain. 


Crimson  the  hearth  where  one  last  ember  glows ! 
My  heart's  new  winter  hath  no  such  relief, 
Nor  thought  of  Spring  whose  blossom  he  hath  known 
Hath  turned  him  back  where  Spring  is  banished. 
Barren  the  heart  and  dead  the  fires  there, 


Blow !  O  ye  ashes,  where  the  winds  shall  please, 
But  cry,  "  Love  also  is  the  Yearly  Slain." 


Be  sped,  my  Canzon,  through  the  bitter  air ! 
To  him  who  speaketh  words  as  fair  as  these, 
Say  that  I  also  know  the  "  Yearly  Slain." 

Canzon:  The  Spear 

"T~^IS  the  clear  light  of  love  I  praise 

J_  That  steadfast  gloweth  o'er  deep  waters, 
A  clarity  that  gleams  always. 
Though  man's  soul  pass  through  troubled  waters, 
Strange  ways  to  him  are  opened. 
To  shore  the  beaten  ship  is  sped 
If  only  love  of  light  give  aid. 


That  fair  far  spear  of  light  now  lays 
Its  long  gold  shaft  upon  the  waters. 
Ah !  might  I  pass  upon  its  rays 
To  where  it  gleams  beyond  the  waters, 
Or  might  my  troubled  heart  be  fed 
Upon  the  frail  clear  light  there  shed, 
Then  were  my  pain  at  last  allay'd. 


Although  the  clouded  storm  dismays 
Many  a  heart  upon  these  waters, 
The  thought  of  that  far  golden  blaze 
Giveth  me  heart  upon  the  waters, 


Thinking  thereof  my  bark  is  led 
To  port  wherein  no  storm  I  dread ; 
No  tempest  maketh  me  afraid. 


Yet  when  within  my  heart  I  gaze 

Upon  my  fair  beyond  the  waters, 

Meseems  my  soul  within  me  prays 

To  pass  straightway  beyond  the  waters. 

Though  I  be  alway  banished 

From  ways  and  woods  that  she  doth  tread, 

One  thing  there  is  that  doth  not  fade, 

Deep  in  my  heart  that  spear-print  stays, 
That  wound  I  gat  beyond  the  waters, 
Deeper  with  passage  of  the  days 
That  pass  as  swift  and  bitter  waters, 
While  a  dull  fire  within  my  head 
Moveth  itself  if  word  be  said 
Which  hath  concern  with  that  far  maid. 


My  love  is  lovelier  than  the  sprays 

Of  eglantine  above  clear  waters, 

Or  whitest  lilies  that  upraise 

Their  heads  in  midst  of  moated  waters. 

No  poppy  in  the  May-glad  mead 

Would  match  her  quivering  lips'  red 

If  'gainst  her  lips  it  should  be  laid. 


The  light  within  her  eyes,  which  slays 
Base  thoughts  and  stilleth  troubled  waters, 

Is  like  the  gold  where  sunlight  plays 
Upon  the  still  o'ershadowed  waters. 
When  anger  is  there  mingled 
There  comes  a  keener  gleam  instead, 
Like  flame  that  burns  beneath  thin  jade. 


Know  by  the  words  here  mingled 

What  love  hath  made  my  heart  his  stead, 

Glowing  like  flame  beneath  thin  jade. 




HEART  mine,  art  mine,  whose  embraces 
Clasp  but  wind  that  past  thee  bloweth  ? 
E'en  this  air  so  subtly  gloweth, 
Guerdoned  by  thy  sun-gold  traces, 
That  my  heart  is  half  afraid 
For  the  fragrance  on  him  laid  ; 
Even  so  love's  might  amazes ! 


Man's  love  follows  many  faces, 
My  love  only  one  face  knoweth ; 
Towards  thee  only  my  love  floweth, 
And  outstrips  the  swift  stream's  paces. 
Were  this  love  well  here  displayed, 
As  flame  flameth  'neath  thin  jade 
Love  should  glow  through  these  my  phrases. 



Though  I've  roamed  through  many  places, 
None  there  is  that  my  heart  troweth 
Fair  as  that  wherein  fair  groweth 
One  whose  laud  here  interlaces 
Tuneful  words,  that  I've  essayed. 
Let  this  tune  be  gently  played 
Which  my  voice  herward  upraises. 


If  my  praise  her  grace  effaces, 
Then  'tis  not  my  heart  that  showeth, 
But  the  skilless  tongue  that  soweth 
Words  unworthy  of  her  graces. 
Tongue,  that  hath  me  so  betrayed, 
Were  my  heart  but  here  displayed, 
Then  were  sung  her  fitting  praises. 


Canzon:  Of  Incense 


HY  gracious  ways, 

O  Lady  of  my  heart,  have 
O'er  all  my  thought  their  golden  glamour  cast; 
As  amber  torch-flames,  where  strange  men-at-arms 
Tread  softly  'neath  the  damask  shield  of  night, 
Rise  from  the  flowing  steel  in  part  reflected, 
So  on  my  mailed  thought  that  with  thee  goeth, 
Though  dark  the  way,  a  golden  glamour  falleth. 

The  censer  sways 

And  glowing  coals  some  art  have 

To  free  what  frankincense  before  held  fast 

Till  all  the  summer  of  the  eastern  farms 

Doth  dim  the  sense,  and  dream  up  through  the  light, 

As  memory,  by  new-born  love  corrected — 

With  savour  such  as  only  new  love  knoweth — 

Through  swift  dim  ways  the  hidden  pasts  recalleth. 

On  barren  days, 

At  hours  when  I>  apart,  have 

Bent  low  in  thought  of  the  great  charm  thou  hast, 
Behold  with  music's  many-stringed  charms 
The  silence  groweth  thou.    O  rare  delight ! 
The  melody  upon  clear  strings  inflected 
Were  dull  when  o'er  taut  sense  thy  presence  floweth, 
With  quivering  notes'  accord  that  never  palleth. 


The  glowing  rays 

That  from  the  low  sun  dart,  have 
Turned  gold  each  tower  and  every  towering  mast ; 
The  saffron  flame,  that  flaming  nothing  harms 
Hides  Khadeeth's  pearl  and  all  the  sapphire  might 
Of  burnished  waves,  before  her  gates  collected : 
The  cloak  of  graciousness,  that  round  thee  gloweth, 
Doth  hide  the  thing  thou  art,  as  here  befalleth. 


All  things  worth  praise 

That  unto  Khadeeth's  mart  have 
From  far  been  brought  through  perils  over-passed, 
All  santal,  myrrh,  and  spikenard  that  disarms 
The  pard's  swift  anger;  these  would  weigh  but  light 
'Gainst  thy  delights,  my  Khadeeth !  Whence  protected 


By  naught  save  her  great  grace  that  in  him  showeth, 
My  song  goes  forth  and  on  her  mercy  calleth. 


O  censer  of  the  thought  that  golden  gloweth, 
Be  bright  before  her  when  the  evening  falleth. 


Fragrant  be  thou  as  a  new  field  one  moweth, 
O  song  of  mine  that  "  Hers  "  her  mercy  calleth. 

Canzone:  Of  Angels 

HE  that  is  Lord  of  all  the  realms  of  light 
Hath  unto  me  from  His  magnificence 
Granted  such  vision  as  hath  wrought  my  joy. 
Moving  my  spirit  past  the  last  defence 
That  shieldeth  mortal  things  from  mightier  sight, 
Where  freedom  of  the  soul  knows  no  alloy, 
I  saw  what  forms  the  lordly  powers  employ ; 
Three  splendours,  saw  I,  of  high  holiness, 
From  clarity  to  clarity  ascending 
Through  all  the  roofless,  tacit  courts  extending 
In  aether  which  such  subtle  light  doth  bless 
As  ne'er  the  candles  of  the  stars  hath  wooed ; 
Know  ye  herefrom  of  their  similitude. 


Withdrawn  within  the  cavern  of  his  wings, 
Grave  with  the  joy  of  thoughts  beneficent, 
And  finely  wrought  and  durable  and  clear, 
If  so  his  eyes  showed  forth  the  mind's  content, 


So  sate  the  first  to  whom  remembrance  clings, 

Tissued  like  bat's  wings  did  his  wings  appear, 

Not  of  that  shadowy  colouring  and  drear, 

But  as  thin  shells,  pale  saffron,  luminous; 

Alone,  unlonely,  whose  calm  glances  shed 

Friend's  love  to  strangers  though  no  word  were  said, 

Pensive  his  godly  state  he  keepeth  thus. 

Not  with  his  surfaces  his  power  endeth, 

But  is  as  flame  that  from  the  gem  extendeth. 


My  second  marvel  stood  not  in  such  ease, 
But  he,  the  cloudy  pinioned,  winged  him  on 
Then  from  my  sight  as  now  from  memory, 
The  courier  aquiline,  so  swiftly  gone ! 
The  third  most  glorious  of  these  majesties 
Give  aid,  O  sapphires  of  th'  eternal  see, 
And  by  your  light  illume  pure  verity. 
That  azure  feldspar  hight  the  microcline, 
Or,  on  its  wing,  the  Menelaus  weareth 
Such  subtlety  of  shimmering  as  beareth 
This  marvel  onward  through  the  crystalline, 
A  splendid  calyx  that  about  her  gloweth, 
Smiting  the  sunlight  on  whose  ray  she  goeth. 


The  diver  at  Sorrento  from  beneath 
The  vitreous  indigo,  who  swiftly  riseth, 
By  will  and  not  by  action  as  it  seemeth, 
Moves  not  more  smoothly,  and  no  thought  surmiseth 
How  she  takes  motion  from  the  lustrous  sheath 
Which,  as  the  trace  behind  the  swimmer,  gleameth 
Yet  presseth  back  the  aether  where  it  streameth. 


To  her  whom  it  adorns  this  sheath  imparteth 
The  living  motion  from  the  light  surrounding ; 
And  thus  my  nobler  parts,  to  grief's  confounding, 
Impart  into  my  heart  a  peace  which  starteth 
From  one  round  whom  a  graciousness  is  cast 
Which  clingeth  in  the  air  where  she  hath  past. 


Canzon,  to  her  whose  spirit  seems  in  sooth 

Akin  unto  the  feldspar,  since  it  is 

So  clear  and  subtle  and  azure,  I  send  thee,  saying: 

That  since  I  looked  upon  such  potencies 

And  glories  as  are  here  inscribed  in  truth, 

New  boldness  hath  o'erthrown  my  long  delaying, 

And  that  thy  words  my  new-born  powers  obeying — 

Voices  at  last  to  voice  my  heart's  long  mood — 

Are  come  to  greet  her  in  their  amplitude. 

To  Our  Lady  of  Vicarious  Atonement 



WHO  are  you  that  the  whole  world's  song 
Is  shaken  out  beneath  your  feet 
Leaving  you  comfortless, 
Who,  that,  as  wheat 
Is  garnered,  gather  in 
The  blades  of  man's  sin 
And  bear  that  sheaf? 
Lady  of  wrong  and  grief, 
Blameless ! 


All  souls  beneath  the  gloom 
That  pass  with  little  flames, 
All  these  till  time  be  run 
Pass  one  by  one 
As  Christs  to  save,  and  die ; 
What  wrong  one  sowed, 
Behold,  another  reaps! 
Where  lips  awake  our  joy 
The  sad  heart  sleeps 

No  man  doth  bear  his  sin, 

But  many  sins 

Are  gathered  as  a  cloud  about  man's  way. 

To  Guide  Cavalcanti 

DANTE  and  I  are  come  to  learn  of  thee, 
Ser  Guido  of  Florence,  master  of  us  all, 
Love,  who  hath  set  his  hand  upon  us  three, 
Bidding  us  twain  upon  thy  glory  call. 
Harsh  light  hath  rent  from  us  the  golden  pall 
Of  that  frail  sleep,  His  first  light  seigniory, 
And  we  are  come  through  all  the  modes  that  fall 
Unto  their  lot  who  meet  him  constantly. 
Wherefore,  by  right,  in  this  Lord's  name  we  greet  thee, 
Seeing  we  labour  at  his  labour  daily. 
Thou,  who  dost  know  what  way  swift  words  are  crossed 
O  thou,  who  hast  sung  till  none  at  song  defeat  thee, 
Grant !  by  thy  might  and  hers  of  San  Michele, 
Thy  risen  voice  send  flames  this  pentecost. 


Sonnet  in  Tenzone 


THOU  mocked  heart  that  cowerest  by  the  door 
And  durst  not  honour  hope  with  welcoming, 
How  shall  one  bid  thee  for  her  honour  sing, 
When  song  would  but  show  forth  thy  sorrow's  store? 
What  things  are  gold  and  ivory  unto  thee? 
Go  forth,  thou  pauper  fool!  Are  these  for  naught? 
Is  heaven  in  lotus  leaves?  What  hast  thou  wrought, 
Or  brought,  or  sought,  wherewith  to  pay  the  fee?  " 


"  If  naught  I  give,  naught  do  I  take  return. 

1  Ronsard  me  celebroit! '  behold  I  give 

The  age-old,  age-old  fare  to  fairer  fair 

And  I  fare  forth  into  more  bitter  air ; 

Though  mocked  I  go,  yet  shall  her  beauty  live 

Till  rimes  unrime  and  Truth  shall  truth  unlearn." 

Sonnet:  Chi  e  Questa? 

WHO  is  she  coming,  that  the  roses  bend 
Their  shameless  heads  to  do  her  passing  honour? 
Who  is  she  coming  with  a  light  upon  her 
Not  born  of  suns  that  with  the  day's  end  end? 
Say  is  it  Love  who  hath  chosen  the  nobler  part? 
Say  is  it  Love,  that  was  divinity, 
Who  hath  left  his  godhead  that  his  home  might  be 
The  shameless  rose  of  her  unclouded  heart? 


If  this  be  Love,  where  hath  he  won  such  grace? 
If  this  be  Love,  how  is  the  evil  wrought, 
That  all  men  write  against  his  darkened  name? 
If  this  be  Love,  if  this  .  .   . 

O  mind  give  place ! 

What  holy  mystery  e'er  was  noosed  in  thought? 
Own  that  thou  scan'st  her  not,  nor  count  it  shame ! 

Ballata,  Fragment 

FULL  well  thou  knowest,  song,  what  grace  I  mean, 
E'en  as  thou  know'st  the  sunlight  I  have  lost. 
Thou  knowest  the  way  of  it  and  know'st  the  sheen 
About  her  brows  where  the  rays  are  bound  and  crossed, 
E'en  as  thou  knowest  joy  and  know'st  joy's  bitter  cost. 
Thou  know'st  her  grace  in  moving, 
Thou  dost  her  skill  in  loving, 
Thou  know'st  what  truth  she  proveth, 
Thou  knowest  the  heart  she  moveth, 
O  song  where  grief  assoneth ! 

Canzon:  The  Vision 


WHEN  first  I  saw  thee  'neath  the  silver  mist, 
Ruling  thy  bark  of  painted  sandal-wood, 
Did  any  know  thee?  By  the  golden  sails 
That  clasped  the  ribbands  of  that  azure  sea, 
Did  any  know  thee  save  my  heart  alone? 
O  ivory  woman  with  thy  bands  of  gold, 
Answer  the  song  my  luth  and  I  have  brought  thee ! 



Dream  over  golden  dream  that  secret  cist, 

Thy  heart,  O  heart  of  me,  doth  hold,  and  mood 

On  mood  of  silver,  when  the  day's  light  fails, 

Say  who  hath  touched  the  secret  heart  of  thee, 

Or  who  hath  known  what  my  heart  hath  not  known ! 

O  slender  pilot  whom  the  mists  enfold, 

Answer  the  song  my  luth  and  I  have  wrought  thee ! 


When  new  love  plucks  the  falcon  from  his  wrist, 

And  cuts  the  gyve  and  casts  the  scarlet  hood, 

Where  is  the  heron  heart  whom  flight  avails? 

O  quick  to  prize  me  Love,  how  suddenly 

From  out  the  tumult  truth  has  ta'en  his  own, 

And  in  this  vision  is  our  past  unrolled. 

Lo !  With  a  hawk  of  light  thy  love  hath  caught  me. 


And  I  shall  get  no  peace  from  eucharist, 
Nor  doling  out  strange  prayers  before  the  rood, 
To  match  the  peace  that  thine  hands'  touch  entails ; 
Nor  doth  God's  light  match  light  shed  over  me 
When  thy  caught  sunlight  is  about  me  thrown, 
Oh,  for  the  very  ruth  thine  eyes  have  told, 
Answer  the  rune  this  love  of  thee  hath  taught  me. 

After  an  age  of  longing  had  we  missed 
Our  meeting  and  the  dream,  what  were  the  good 
Of  weaving  cloth  of  words?  Were  jewelled  tales 
An  opiate  meet  to  quell  the  malady 
Of  life  unlived?  In  untried  monotone 


Were  not  the  earth  as  vain,  and  dry,  and  old, 
For  thee,  O  Perfect  Light,  had  I  not  sought  thee? 


Calais,  in  song  where  word  and  tone  keep  tryst 
Behold  my  heart,  and  hear  mine  hardihood ! 
Calais,  the  wind  is  come  and  heaven  pales 
And  trembles  for  the  love  of  day  to  be. 
Calais,  the  words  break  and  the  dawn  is  shown. 
Ah,  but  the  stars  set  when  thou  wast  first  bold, 
Turn!  lest  they  say  a  lesser  light  distraught  thee. 


O  ivory  thou,  the  golden  scythe  hath  mown 
Night's  stubble  and  my  joy.    Thou  royal  souled, 
Favour  the  quest!  Lo,  Truth  and  I  have  sought  thee! 


FINE  songs,  fair  songs,  these  golden  usuries 
Her  beauty  earns  as  but  just  increment, 
And  they  do  speak  with  a  most  ill  intent 
Who  say  they  give  when  they  pay  debtor's  fees. 

I  call  him  bankrupt  in  the  courts  of  song 
Who  hath  her  gold  to  eye  and  pays  her  not, 
Defaulter  do  I  call  the  knave  who  hath  got 
Her  silver  in  his  heart,  and  doth  her  wrong. 


IF  on  the  tally-board  of  wasted  days 
They  daily  write  me  for  proud  idleness, 
Let  high  Hell  summons  me,  and  I  confess, 
No  overt  act  the  preferred  charge  allays. 

To-day  I  thought — what  boots  it  what  I  thought? 
Poppies  and  gold!  Why  should  I  blurt  it  out? 
Or  hawk  the  magic  of  her  name  about 
Deaf  doors  and  dungeons  where  no  truth  is  bought? 

Who  calls  me  idle?  I  have  thought  of  her. 
Who  calls  me  idle?  By  God's  truth  I've  seen 
The  arrowy  sunlight  in  her  golden  snares. 

Let  him  among  you  all  stand  summonser 

Who  hath  done  better  things !  Let  whoso  hath  been 

With  worthier  works  concerned,  display  his  wares ! 


'nr^HE  light  became  her  grace  and  dwelt  among 

JL   Blind  eyes  and  shadows  that  are  formed  as  men ; 
Lo,  how  the  light  doth  melt  us  into  song : 

The  broken  sunlight  for  a  healm  she  beareth 
Who  hath  my  heart  in  jurisdiction. 
In  wild- wood  never  fawn  nor  fallow  fareth 
So  silent  light ;  no  gossamer  is  spun 
So  delicate  as  she  is,  when  the  sun 
Drives  the  clear  emeralds  from  the  bended  grasses 
Lest  they  should  parch  too  swiftly,  where  she  passes. 


LEAR  is  my  love  but  shadowed 
By  the  spun  gold  above  her, 
Ah,  what  a  petal  those  bent  sheaths  discover! 

The  olive  wood  hath  hidden  her  completely, 

She  was  gowned  that  discreetly 

The  leaves  and  shadows  concealed  her  completely. 

Fair  is  my  love  but  followed 

In  all  her  goings  surely 

By  gracious  thoughts,  she  goeth  so  demurely. 

Era  Mea 

ERA  mea 
In  qua  terra 
Dulce  myrti  floribus, 
Rosa  amoris 
Via  erroris 
Ad  te  coram 


Mistress  mine,  in  what  far  land, 
Where  the  myrtle  bloweth  sweet 
Shall  I  weary  with  my  way-fare, 
Win  to  thee  that  art  as  day  fair, 
Lay  my  roses  at  thy  feet? 



O  more  for  us  the  little  sighing1, 
No  more  the  winds  at  twilight  trouble  us. 

Lo  the  fair  dead ! 

No  more  do  I  burn. 

No  more  for  us  the  fluttering  of  wings 

That  whirred  in  the  air  above  us. 

Lo  the  fair  dead ! 

No  more  desire  flayeth  me, 
No  more  for  us  the  trembling 
At  the  meeting  of  hands. 

Lo  the  fair  dead ! 

No  more  for  us  the  wine  of  the  lips, 
No  more  for  us  the  knowledge. 

Lo  the  fair  dead ! 

No  more  the  torrent, 

No  more  for  us  the  meeting-place 

(Lo  the  fair  dead !) 


The  Tree 

I    STOOD  still  and  was  a  tree  amid  the  wood, 
Knowing  the  truth  of  things  unseen  before ; 
Of  Daphne  and  the  laurel  bow 
And  that  god-feasting  couple  old 

That  grew  elm-oak  amid  the  wold. 
'Twas  not  until  the  gods  had  been 
Kindly  entreated,  and  been  brought  within 
Unto  the  hearth  of  their  heart's  home 
That  they  might  do  this  wonder  thing ; 
Nathless  I  have  been  a  tree  amid  the  wood 
And  many  a  new  thing  understood 
That  was  rank  folly  to  my  head  before. 

Paracelsus  In  Excelsis 

EING  no  longer  human  why  should  I 

Pretend  humanity  or  don  the  frail  attire? 
Men  have  I  known,  and  men,  but  never  one 
Was  grown  so  free  an  essence,  or  become 
So  simply  element  as  what  I  am. 
The  mist  goes  from  the  mirror  and  I  see ! 
Behold !  the  world  of  forms  is  swept  beneath — 
Turmoil  grown  visible  beneath  our  peace, 
And  we,  that  are  grown  formless,  rise  above — 
Fluids  intangible  that  have  been  men, 
We  seem  as  statues  round  whose  high-risen  base 
Some  overflowing  river  is  run  mad, 
In  us  alone  the  element  of  calm  !  " 


De  Aegypto 

EVEN  I,  am  he  who  knoweth  the  roads 

Through  the  sky,  and  the  wind  thereof  is  my  body. 

I  have  beheld  the  Lady  of  Life, 

I,  even  I,  who  fly  with  the  swallows. 


Green  and  gray  is  her  raiment, 
Trailing  along  the  wind. 

I,  even  I,  am  he  who  knoweth  the  roads 
Through  the  sky,  and  the  wind  thereof  is  my  body. 

Manus  animam  pinxit, 
My  pen  is  in  my  hand 

To  write  the  acceptable  word.  .  .  . 
My  mouth  to  chant  the  pure  singing ! 

Who  hath  the  mouth  to  receive  it, 
The  song  of  the  Lotus  of  Kumi? 

I,  even  I,  am  he  who  knoweth  the  roads 
Through  the  sky,  and  the  wind  thereof  is  my  body. 

I  am  flame  that  riseth  in  the  sun, 
I,  even  I,  who  fly  with  the  swallows. 

The  moon  is  upon  my  forehead, 
The  winds  are  under  my  lips. 

The  moon  is  a  great  pearl  in  the  waters  of  sapphire, 
Cool  to  my  fingers  the  flowing  waters. 

I,  even  I,  am  he  who  knoweth  the  roads 

Through  the  sky,  and  the  wind  thereof  is  my  body. 

I  will  return  to  the  halls  of  the  flowing, 
Of  the  truth  of  the  children  of  Ashu. 

I,  even  I,  am  he  who  knoweth  the  roads 
Of  the  sky,  and  the  wind  thereof  is  my  body. 


Li  Bel  Chasteus 

THAT  castle  stands  the  highest  in  the  land 
Far  seen  and  mighty.    Of  the  great  hewn  stones 
What  shall  I  say?  And  deep  foss  way 
That  far  beneath  us  bore  of  old 
A  swelling  turbid  sea 
Hill-born  and  tumultuous 
Unto  the  fields  below,  where 
Staunch  villein  and 
Burgher  held  the  land  and  tilled 
Long  labouring  for  gold  of  wheat  grain 
And  to  see  the  beards  come  forth 
For  barley's  even  time. 

But  arched  high  above  the  curl  of  life 

We  dwelt  amid  the  ancient  boulders, 

Gods  had  hewn  and  druids  turned 

Unto  that  birth  most  wondrous,  that  had  grown 

A  mighty  fortress  while  the  world  had  slept, 

And  we  awaited  in  the  shadows  there 

When  mighty  hands  had  laboured  sightlessly 

And  shaped  this  wonder  'bove  the  ways  of  men. 

Me  seems  we  could  not  see  the  great  green  waves 

Nor  rocky  shore  by  Tintagoel 

From  this  our  hold, 

But  came  faint  murmuring  as  undersong, 

E'en  as  the  burghers'  hum  arose 

And  died  as  faint  wind  melody 

Beneath  our  gates. 


Prayer  for  his  Lady's  Life 


HERE  let  thy  clemency,  Persephone,  hold  firm, 
Do  thou,  Pluto,  bring  here  no  greater  harshness. 
So  many  thousand  beauties  are  gone  down  to  Avernus 
Ye  might  let  one  remain  above  with  us. 

With  you  is  lope,  with  you  the  white-gleaming  Tyro, 
With  you  is  Europa  and  the  shameless  Pasiphae, 
And  all  the  fair  from  Troy  and  all  from  Achaia, 
From   the   sundered   realms,    of  Thebes   and   of  aged 

Priamus ; 

And  all  the  maidens  of  Rome,  as  many  as  they  were, 
They  died  and  the  greed  of  your  flame  consumes  them. 

Here  let  thy  clemency,  Persephone,  hold  firm, 
Do  thou,  Pluto,  bring  here  no  greater  harshness. 
So  many  thousand  fair  are  gone  down  to  Avernus, 
Ye  might  let  one  remain  above  with  us. 

Speech  for  Psyche  in  the  Golden  Book  of 

ALL  night,  and  as  the  wind  lieth  among 
The  cypress  trees,  he  lay, 
Nor  held  me  save  as  air  that  brusheth  by  one 
Close,  and  as  the  petals  of  flowers  in  falling 
Waver  and  seem  not  drawn  to  earth,  so  he 
Seemed  over  me  to  hover  light  as  leaves 
And  closer  me  than  air, 

And  music  flowing  through  me  seemed  to  open 
Mine  eyes  upon  new  colours. 

O  winds,  what  wind  can  match  the  weight  of  him! 

"  Blandula,  Tenulla,  Vagula." 

WHAT  hast  thou,  O  my  soul,  with  paradise? 
Will  we  not  rather,  when  our  freedom 's  won, 
Get  us  to  some  clear  place  wherein  the  sun 
Lets  drift  in  on  us  through  the  olive  leaves 
A  liquid  glory?  If  at  Sirmio 
My  soul,  I  meet  thee,  when  this  life 's  outrun, 
Will  we  not  find  some  headland  consecrated 
By  aery  apostles  of  terrene  delight, 
Will  not  our  cult  be  founded  on  the  waves, 
Clear  sapphire,  cobalt,  cyanine, 
On  triune  azures,  the  impalpable 
Mirrors  unstill  of  the  eternal  change? 

Soul,  if  She  meet  us  there,  will  any  rumour 
Of  havens  more  high  and  courts  desirable 
Lure  us  beyond  the  cloudy  peak  of  Riva? 

Erat  Hora 

"  ^  I  ^HANKyou,  whatever  comes."  And  then  she  turned 

JL   And,  as  the  ray  of  sun  on  hanging  flowers 
Fades  when  the  wind  hath  lifted  them  aside, 
Went  swiftly  from  me.    Nay,  whatever  comes 
One  hour  was  sunlit  and  the  most  high  gods 
May  not  make  boast  of  any  better  thing 
Than  to  have  watched  that  hour  as  it  passed. 


O  IVORY,  delicate  hands ! 
O  face  that  hovers 
Between  "  To-come"  and  "  Was," 
Ivory  thou  wast, 
A  rose  thou  wilt  be. 



I  LOOKED  and  saw  a  sea 
roofed  over  with  rainbows, 
In  the  midst  of  each 

two  lovers  met  and  departed ; 
Then  the  sky  was  full  of  faces 

with  gold  glories  behind  them. 

La  Nuvoletta 

Dante  to  an  unknown  lady,  beseeching  her  not  to  interrupt  his 
cult  of  the  dead  Beatrice.    From  "  II  Canzoniere,"  Ballata  II. 

AH  little  cloud  that  in  Love's  shadow  lief 
Upon  mine  eyes  so  suddenly  alightest, 
Take  some  faint  pity  on  the  heart  thou  smitest 
That  hopes  in  thee,  desires,  dies,  in  brief. 

Ah  little  cloud  of  more  than  human  fashion 
Thou  settest  a  flame  within  my  mind's  mid  space 
With  thy  deathly  speech  that  grieveth ; 


Then  as  a  fiery  spirit  in  thy  ways 

Greatest  hope,  in  part  a  rightful  passion, 

Yet  where  thy  sweet  smile  giveth 

His  grace,  look  not !  For  in  Her  my  faith  liveth. 

Think  on  my  high  desire  whose  flame's  so  great 
That  nigh  a  thousand  who  were  come  too  late, 
Have  felt  the  torment  of  another's  grief. 

Rosa  Sempiterna. 

AROSE  I  set  within  my  "  Paradise  " 
Lo  how  his  red  is  turned  to  yellowness, 
Not  withered  but  grown  old  in  subtler  wise 
Between  the  empaged  rime's  high  holiness 
Where  Dante  sings  of  that  rose's  device 
Which  yellow  is,  with  souls  in  blissfulness. 
Rose  whom  I  set  within  my  paradise, 
Donor  of  roses  and  of  parching  sighs, 
Of  golden  lights  and  dark  unhappiness, 
Of  hidden  chains  and  silvery  joyousness, 
Hear  how  thy  rose  within  my  Dante  lies, 
O  rose  I  set  within  my  paradise. 

The  Golden  Sestina 


IN  the  bright  season  when  He,  most  high  Jove, 
From  welkin  reaching  down  his  glorying  hand, 
Decks  the  Great  Mother  and  her  changing  face, 


Clothing  her  not  with  scarlet  skeins  and  gold 
But  with  th'  empurpling  flowers  and  gay  grass, 
When  the  young  year  renewed,  renews  the  sun, 

When,  then,  I  see  a  lady  like  the  sun, 

One  fashioned  by  th'  high  hand  of  utmost  Jove, 

So  fair  beneath  the  myrtles  on  gay  grass 

Who  holdeth  Love  and  Truth,  one  by  each  hand, 

It  seems,  if  I  look  straight,  two  bands  of  gold 

Do  make  more  fair  her  delicate  fair  face. 

Though  eyes  are  dazzled,  looking  on  her  face 

As  all  sight  faileth  that  looks  toward  the  sun, 

New  metamorphoses,  to  rained  gold, 

Or  bulls  or  whitest  swans,  might  fall  on  Jove 

Through  her,  or  Phoebus,  his  bag-pipes  in  hand, 

Might,  mid  the  droves,  come  barefoot  o'er  our  grass. 

Alas,  that  there  was  hidden  in  the  grass 
A  cruel  shaft,  the  which,  to  wound  my  face, 
My  Lady  took  in  her  own  proper  hand. 
If  I  could  not  defend  me  'gainst  that  sun 
I  take  no  shame,  for  even  utmost  Jove 
Is  in  high  heaven  pierced  with  darts  of  gold. 

Behold  the  green  shall  find  itself  turned  gold 

And  spring  shall  be  without  her  flowers  and  grass, 

And  hell's  deep  be  the  dwelling  place  of  Jove 

Ere  I  shall  have  uncarved  her  holy  face 

From  my  heart's  midst,  where  'tis  both  Sun  and  sun ; 

And  yet  she  beareth  me  such  hostile  hand ! 

O  sweet  and  holy  and  O  most  light  hand, 
O  intermingled  ivory  and  gold, 
O  mortal  goddess  and  terrestrial  sun 


Who  comest  not  to  foster  meadow  grass, 
But  to  show  heaven  by  a  likened  face 
Wert  sent  amongst  us  by  th'  exalted  Jove, 

I  still  pray  Jove  that  he  permit  no  grass 
To  cover  o'er  thy  hands,  thy  face,  thy  gold 
For  heaven's  sufficed  with  a  single  sun. 



"  Troica  Roma  resurges." 


OTHOU  new  comer  who  seek'st  Rome  in  Rome 
And  find'st  in    Rome   no   thing  thou   canst   call 

Roman ; 

Arches  worn  old  and  palaces  made  common, 
Rome's  name  alone  within  these  walls  keeps  home. 

Behold  how  pride  and  ruin  can  befall 

One  who  hath  set  the  whole  world  '  neath  her  laws, 

All-conquering,  now  conquered,  because 

She  is  Time's  prey  and  Time  consumeth  all. 

Rome  that  art  Rome's  one  sole  last  monument, 
Rome  that  alone  hast  conquered  Rome  the  town, 
Tiber  alone,  transient  and  seaward  bent, 
Remains  of  Rome.    O  world,  thou  unconstant  mime! 
That  which  stands  firm  in  thee  Time  batters  down, 
And  that  which  fleeteth  doth  outrun  swift  time. 


Her  Monument,  the  Image  Cut  thereon 


(Written  1831-3  circa) 

SUCH  wast  thou, 
Who  art  now 

But  buried  dust  and  rusted  skeleton. 
Above  the  bones  and  mire, 
Motionless,  placed  in  vain, 
Mute  mirror  of  the  flight  of  speeding  years, 
Sole  guard  of  grief 
Sole  guard  of  memory 
Standeth  this  image  of  the  beauty  sped. 

O  glance,  when  thou  wast  still  as  thou  art  now, 

How  hast  thou  set  the  fire 

A-tremble  in  men's  veins ;  O  lip  curved  high 

To  mind  me  of  some  urn  of  full  delight, 

O  throat  girt  round  of  old  with  swift  desire, 

O  palms  of  Love,  that  in  your  wonted  ways 

Not  once  but  many  a  day 

Felt  hands  turn  ice  a-sudden,  touching  ye, 

That  ye  were  once !  of  all  the  grace  ye  had 

That  which  remaineth  now 

Shameful,  most  sad 

Finds  'neath  this  rock  fit  mould,  fit  resting  place  ! 

And  still  when  fate  recalleth, 

Even  that  semblance  that  appears  amongst  us 

Is  like  to  heaven's  most  'live  imagining. 

All,  all  our  life's  eternal  mystery ! 

To-day,  on  high 


Mounts,  from  our  mighty  thoughts  and  from  the  fount 

Of  sense  untellable,  Beauty 

That  seems  to  be  some  quivering  splendour  cast 

By  the  immortal  nature  on  this  quicksand, 

And  by  surhuman  fates 

Given  to  mortal  state 

To  be  a  sign  and  an  hope  made  secure 

Of  blissful  kingdoms  and  the  aureate  spheres; 

And  on  the  morrow,  by  some  lightsome  twist, 

Shameful  in  sight,  abject,  abominable 

All  this  angelic  aspect  can  return 

And  be  but  what  it  was 

With  all  the  admirable  concepts  that  moved  from  it 

Swept  from  the  mind  with  it  in  its  departure. 

Infinite  things  desired,  lofty  visions 

'Got  on  desirous  thought  by  natural  virtue, 

And  the  wise  concord,  whence  through  delicious  seas 

The  arcane  spirit  of  the  whole  Mankind 

Turns  hardy  pilot  .  .  .  and  if  one  wrong  note 

Strike  the  tympanum, 


That  paradise  is  hurled  to  nothingness. 

O  mortal  nature, 

If  thou  art 

Frail  and  so  vile  in  all, 

How  canst  thou  reach  so  high  with  thy  poor  sense ; 

Yet  if  thou  art 

Noble  in  any  part 

How  is  the  noblest  of  thy  speech  and  thought 

So  lightly  wrought 

Or  to  such  base  occasion  lit  and  quenched? 


Victorian  Eclogues 


AH  would  you  turn  me  back  now  from  the  flowers, 
You  who  are  different  as  the  air  from  sea  is, 
Ah  for  the  pollen  from  our  wreath  of  hours, 
You  who  are  magical,  not  mine  as  she  is, 
Say  will  you  call  us  from  our  time  of  flowers  ? 

You  whom  I  loved  and  love,  not  understanding, 
Yea  we  were  ever  torn  with  constant  striving, 
Seeing  our  gods  are  different,  and  commanding 
One  good  from  them,  and  in  my  heart  reviving 
Old  discords  and  bent  thought,  not  understanding. 

We  who  have  wept,  we  who  have  lain  together 
Upon  the  green  and  sere  and  white  of  every  season, 
We  who  have  loved  the  sun  but  for  the  weather 
Of  our  own  hearts  have  found  no  constant  reason, 
What  is  your  part,  now  we  have  come  together? 

What  is  your  pain,  Dear,  what  is  your  heart  now 

A  little  sad,  a  little Nay,  I  know  not 

Seeing  I  never  had  and  have  no  part  now 

In  your  own  secret  councils  wherein  blow  not 

My  roses.    My  vineyard  being  another  heart  now? 

You  who  were  ever  dear  and  dearer  being  strange, 
How  shall  I  "  go  "  who  never  came  anear  you? 
How  could  I  stay,  who  never  came  in  range 
Of  anything  that  halved ;  could  never  hear  you 
Rightly  in  your  silence;    nay,   your  very  speech  was 


You,  who  have  loved  not  what  I  was  or  will  be, 
You  who  but  loved  me  for  a  thing  I  could  be, 
You  who  love  not  a  song  whate'er  its  skill  be 
But  only  love  the  cause  or  what  cause  should  be, 
How  could  I  give  you  what  I  am  or  will  be? 

Nay,  though  your  eyes  are  sad,  you  will  not  hinder, 
You,  who  would  have  had  me  only  near  not  nearer, 
Nay  though  my  heart  had  burned  to  a  bright  cinder 
Love  would  have  said  to  me:  "  Still  fear  her, 
Pain  is  thy  lot  and  naught  she  hath  can  hinder," 

So  I,  for  this  sad  gladness  that  is  mine  now, 

Who  never  spoke  aright  in  speaking  to  you, 

Uncomprehending  anything  that  's  thine  now, 

E'en  in  my  spoken  words  more  wrong  may  do  you 

In  looking  back  from  this  new  grace  that  's  mine  now. 

Sic  semper  finis  deest. 



WHAT  if  I  know  thy  speeches  word  by  word? 
And  if  thou  knew'st  I  knew  them  wouldst  thou 


What  if  I  know  thy  speeches  word  by  word, 
And  all  the  time  thou  sayest  them  o'er  I  said, 
"  Lo,  one  there  was  who  bent  her  fair  bright  head, 
Sighing  as  thou  dost  through  the  golden  speech." 
Or,  as  our  laughters  mingle  each  with  each, 
As  crushed  lips  take  their  respite  fitfully, 
What  if  my  thoughts  were  turned  in  their  mid  reach 

Whispering  among  them,  "  The  fair  dead 

Must  know  such  moments,  thinking  on  the  grass ; 

On  how  white  dogwoods  murmured  overhead 

In  the  bright  glad  days !  " 

How  if  the  low  dear  sound  within  thy  throat 

Hath  as  faint  lute-strings  in  its  dim  accord 

Dim  tales  that  blind  me,  running  one  by  one 

With  times  told  over  as  we  tell  by  rote  ; 

What  if  I  know  thy  laughter  word  by  word 

Nor  find  aught  novel  in  thy  merriment? 



"  Pere  Esbaillart  a  Sanct  Denis." 

"  T)  ECAUSE  my  soul  cried  out,  and  only  the  long 

JZ)   ways 

Grown  weary,  gave  me  answer  and 
Because  she  answered  when  the  very  ways  were  dumb 
With  all  their  hoarse,  dry  speech  grown  faint  and  chill. 
Because  her  answer  was  a  call  to  me, 
Though  I  have  sinned,  my  God,  and  though  thy  angels 
Bear  no  more  now  my  thought  to  whom  I  love ; 
Now  though  I  crouch  afraid  in  all  thy  dark 
Will  I  once  cry  to  thee : 

Once  more !  Once  more  my  strength  ! 
Yea  though  I  sin  to  call  him  forth  once  more, 
Thy  messengers  for  mine, 
Their  wings  my  power ! 

And  let  once  more  my  wings  fold  down  above  her, 
Let  their  cool  length  be  spread 


Over  her  feet  and  head 

And  let  thy  calm  come  down 

To  dwell  within  her,  and  thy  gown  of  peace 

Clothe  all  her  body  in  its  samite. 

O  Father  of  all  the  blind  and  all  the  strong, 

Though  I  have  left  thy  courts,  though  all  the  throng 

Of  thy  gold-shimmering  choir  know  me  not, 

Though  I  have  dared  the  body  and  have  donned 

Its  frail  strong-seeming,  and  although 

Its  lightening  joy  is  made  my  swifter  song, 

Though  I  have  known  thy  stars,  yea  all, 

and  chosen  one. 

Yea  though  I  make  no  barter,  and  repent  no  jot, 
Yet  for  the  sunlight  of  that  former  time 
Grant  me  the  boon,  O  God, 

Once  more,  once  more,  or  I  or  some  white  thought 
Shall  rise  beside  her  and,  enveloping 
All  her  strange  glory  in  its  wings  of  light, 
Bring  down  thy  peace  upon  her  way-worn  soul. 
Oh  sheathe  that  sword  of  her  in  some  strong  case, 
The  doe-skin  scabbard  of  thy  clear  Rafael ! 
Yea  let  thy  angels  walk,  as  I  have  seen 
Them  passing,  or  have  seen  their  wings 
Spread  their  pavilions  o'er  our  twin  delight. 
Yea  I  have  seen  them  when  the  purple  light 
Hid  all  her  garden  from  my  drowsy  eyes. 


A  Prologue 


The  Lords  of  the  Air: 

HAT  light  hath  passed  us  in  the  silent  ways? 


The  Spirits  of  Fire: 

We  are  sustained,  strengthened  suddenly. 

The  Spirits  of  Water: 

Lo,  how  the  utmost  deeps  are  clarified ! 

The  Spirits  Terrene: 

What  might  is  this  more  potent  than  the  spring? 
Lo,  how  the  night 

Which  wrapped  us  round  with  its  most  heavy  cloths 
Opens  and  breathes  with   some  strange-fashioned 
brightness ! 


Christ,  the  eternal  Spirit  in  Heaven  speaketh  thus,  over 

the  child  of  Mary  : 

O  star,  move  forth  and  write  upon  the  skies, 
"  This  child  is  born  in  ways  miraculous." 

•  •     •     «     • 

O  windy  spirits,  that  are  born  in  Heaven, 

Go  down  and  bid  the  powers  of  Earth  and  Air 

Protect  his  ways  until  the  Time  shall  come. 


•  •     •     •     • 

O  Mother,  if  the  dark  of  things  to  be 
Wrap  round  thy  heart  with  cloudy  apprehensions, 
Eat  of  thy  present  corn,  the  aftermath 
Hath  its  appointed  end  in  whirling  light. 

Eat  of  thy  present  corn,  thou  so  hast  share 
In  mightier  portents  than  Augustus  hath. 

In  every  moment  all  to  be  is  born, 

Thou  art  the  moment  and  need'st  fear  no  scorn. 

Echo  of  the  Angels  singing  "  Exultasti:  " 

Silence  is  born  of  many  peaceful  things, 

Thus  is  the  starlight  woven  into  strings 

Whereon  the  Powers  of  peace  make  sweet  accord. 

Rejoice,  O  Earth,  thy  Lord 

Hath  chosen  Him  his  holy  resting-place. 

Lo,  how  the  winged  sign 

Flutters  above  that  hallowed  chrysalis. 


The  invisible  Spirit  of  the  Star  answers  them: 
Bend,  in  your  singing,  gracious  potencies, 
Bend  low  above  your  ivory  bows  and  gold ! 
That  which  ye  know  but  dimly  hath  been  wrought 
High  in  the  luminous  courts  and  azure  ways : 
Bend  in  your  praise; 
For  though  your  subtle  thought 
Sees  but  in  part  the  source  of  mysteries, 
Yet  are  ye  bidden  in  your  songs,  sing  this : 

"  Gloria!  gloria  in  excelsis 
Pax  in  terra  nunc  natast" 

Angels  continuing  in  song: 

Shepherds  and  kings,  with  lambs  and  frankincense 
Go  and  atone  for  mankind's  ignorance : 
Make  ye  soft  savour  from  your  ruddy  myrrh. 
Lo,  how  God's  son  is  turned  God's  almoner. 

Give  ye  this  little 
Ere  he  give  ye  all. 


One  of  the  Magi: 

How  the  deep-voiced  night  turns  councillor ! 
And  how,  for  end,  our  starry  meditations 
Admit  us  to  his  board ! 

A  Shepherd: 

Sir,  we  be  humble  and  perceive  ye  are 
Men  of  great  power  and  authority, 
And  yet  we  too  have  heard. 


(Lucina  dolentibus:) 

"  Behold  the  deed!  Behold  the  act  supreme! 
With  mine  own  hands  have  I  prepared  my  doom, 
Truth  shall  grow  great  eclipsing  other  truth, 
And  men  forget  me  in  the  aging  years. 


Maestro  di  Tocar 

(W.   R.) 

YOU,  who  are  touched  not  by  our  mortal  ways 
Nor  girded  with  the  stricture  of  our  bands, 
Have  but  to  loose  the  magic  from  your  hands 
And  all  men's  hearts  that  glimmer  for  a  day, 
And  all  our  loves  that  are  so  swift  to  flame 
Rise  in  that  space  of  sound  and  melt  away. 




Y  love  is  a  deep  flame 

that  hides  beneath  the  waters. 

— My  love  is  gay  and  kind, 
My  love  is  hard  to  find 

as  the  flame  beneath  the  waters. 

The  fingers  of  the  wind 

meet  hers 
With  a  frail 

swift  greeting. 
My  love  is  gay 

and  kind 

and  hard 

of  meeting, 

As  the  flame  beneath  the  waters 
hard  of  meeting. 


WHEN  brightest  colours  seem  but  dull  in  hue 
And  noblest  arts  are  shown  mechanical, 
When  study  serves  but  to  heap  clue  on  clue 
That  no  great  line  hath  been  or  ever  shall, 
But  hath  a  savour  like  some  second  stew 
Of  many  pot-lots  with  a  smack  of  all. 
'Twas  one  man's  field,  another's  hops  the  brew, 
'Twas  vagrant  accident  not  fate's  fore-call. 


Horace,  that  thing  of  thine  is  overhauled, 

And  "  Wood  notes  wild  "  weaves  a  concocted  sonnet. 

Here  aery  Shelley  on  the  text  hath  called, 

And  here,  Great  Scott,  the  Murex,  Keats  comes  on  it. 

And  all  the  lot  howl,  "  Sweet  Simplicity !  " 

'Tis  Art  to  hide  our  theft  exquisitely. 

Song  in  the  Manner  of  Housman 

OWOE,  woe, 
People  are  born  and  die, 
We  also  shall  be  dead  pretty  soon 
Therefore  let  us  act  as  if  we  were 
dead  already. 

The  bird  sits  on  the  hawthorn  tree 
But  he  dies  also,  presently. 
Some  lads  get  hung,  and  some  get  shot. 
Woeful  is  this  human  lot. 

Woe!  woe,  etcetera.  .  .  . 

London  is  a  woeful  place, 
Shropshire  is  much  pleasanter. 
Then  let  us  smile  a  little  space 
Upon  fond  nature's  morbid  grace. 

Ohy  Woe,  woe,  woe,  etcetera.  .   . 

Translations  from  Heine 


IS  your  hate,  then,  of  such  measure? 
Do  you,  truly,  so  detest  me? 
Through  all  the  world  will  I  complain 
Of  how  you  have  addressed  me. 

O  ye  lips  that  are  ungrateful, 
Hath  it  never  once  distressed  you, 
That  you  can  say  such  awful  things 
Of  any  one  who  ever  kissed  you? 


SO  thou  hast  forgotten  fully 
That  I  so  long  held  thy  heart  wholly, 
Thy  little  heart,  so  sweet  and  false  and  small 
That  there 's  no  thing  more  sweet  or  false  at  all. 

Love  and  lay  thou  hast  forgotten  fully, 
And  my  heart  worked  at  them  unduly. 
I  know  not  if  the  love  or  if  the  lay  were  better  stuff, 
But  I  know  now,  they  both  were  good  enough. 


TELL  me  where  thy  lovely  love  is, 
Whom  thou  once  did  sing  so  sweetly, 
When  the  fairy  flames  enshrouded 
Thee,  and  held  thy  heart  completely. 

All  the  flames  are  dead  and  sped  now 
And  my  heart  is  cold  and  sere ; 
Behold  this  book,  the  urn  of  ashes, 
Tis  my  true  love's  sepulchre. 


I   DREAMT  that  I  was  God  Himself 
Whom  heavenly  joy  immerses, 
And  all  the  angels  sat  about 
And  praised  my  verses. 


THE  mutilated  choir  boys 
When  I  begin  to  sing 
Complain  about  the  awful  noise 
And  call  my  voice  too  thick  a  thing. 

When  light  their  voices  lift  them  up, 
Bright  notes  against  the  ear, 
Through  trills  and  runs  like  crystal, 
Ring  delicate  and  clear. 

They  sing  of  Love  that 's  grown  desirous, 
Of  Love,  and  joy  that  is  Love's  inmost  part, 
And  all  the  ladies  swim  through  tears 
Toward  such  a  work  of  art. 


THIS  delightful  young  man 
Should  not  lack  for  honourers, 
He  propitiates  me  with  oysters, 
With  Rhine  wine  and  liqueurs. 

How  his  coat  and  pants  adorn  him ! 
Yet  his  ties  are  more  adorning, 
In  these  he  daily  comes  to  ask  me : 
Are  you  feeling  well  this  morning? 

He  speaks  of  my  extended  fame, 
My  wit,  charm,  definitions, 
And  is  diligent  to  serve  me, 
Is  detailed  in  his  provisions. 

In  evening  company  he  sets  his  face 
In  most  spirituel  positions, 
And  declaims  before  the  ladies 
My  god-like  compositions. 

O  what  comfort  is  it  for  me 
To  find  him  such,  when  the  days  bring 
No  comfort,  at  my  time  of  life  when 
All  good  things  go  vanishing. 


0  Harry  Heine,  curses  be, 

1  live  too  late  to  sup  with  thee ! 

Who  can  demolish  at  such  polished  ease 
Philistia's  pomp  and  Art' s  pomposities ! 




I  AM  the  Princess  Ilza 
In  Ilsenstein  I  fare, 
Come  with  me  to  that  castle 
And  we'll  be  happy  there. 

Thy  head  will  I  cover  over 
With  my  waves'  clarity 
Till  thou  forget  thy  sorrow, 
O  wounded  sorrowfully. 

Thou  wilt  in  my  white  arms  there, 
Nay,  on  my  breast  thou  must 
Forget  and  rest  and  dream  there 
For  thine  old  legend-lust. 

My  lips  and  my  heart  are  thine  there 
As  they  were  his  and  mine. 
His?  Why  the  good  King  Harry's, 
And  he  is  dead  lang  syne. 

Dead  men  stay  alway  dead  men, 
Life  is  the  live  man's  part, 
And  I  am  fair  and  golden 
With  joy  breathless  at  heart. 

If  my  heart  stay  below  there, 
My  crystal  halls  ring  clear 
To  the  dance  of  lords  and  ladies 
In  all  their  splendid  gear. 

The  silken  trains  go  rustling, 
The  spur-clinks  sound  between, 
The  dark  dwarfs  blow  and  bow  there 
Small  horn  and  violin. 

Yet  shall  my  white  arms  hold  thee, 
That  bound  King  Harry  about. 
Ah,  I  covered  his  ears  with  them 
When  the  trumpet  rang  out. 

Und  Drang 

Nay,  dwells  he  in  cloudy  rumour  alone? 


I  AM  worn  faint, 
The  winds  of  good  and  evil 
Blind  me  with  dust 
And  burn  me  with  the- cold, 
There  is  no  comfort  being  over-man ; 
Yet  are  we  come  more  near 
The  great  oblivions  and  the  labouring  night, 
Inchoate  truth  and  the  sepulchral  forces. 


/CONFUSION,  clamour,  'mid  the  many  voices 
\^_s   Is  there  a  meaning,  a  significance? 

That  life  apart  from  all  life  gives  and  takes, 

This  life,  apart  from  all  life's  bitter  and  life's  sweet, 

Is  good. 

Ye  see  me  and  ye  say :  exceeding  sweet 


Life's  gifts,  his  youth,  his  art, 
And  his  too  soon  acclaim. 

I  also  knew  exceeding"  bitterness, 
Saw  good  things  altered  and  old  friends  fare  forth, 
And  what  I  loved  in  me  hath  died  too  soon, 
Yea  I  have  seen  the  "  gray  above  the  green  "; 
Gay  have  I  lived  in  life ; 

Though  life  hath  lain 

Strange  hands  upon  me  and  hath  torn  my  sides, 
Yet  I  believe. 

Life  is  most  cruel  where  she  is  most  wise. 



HE  will  to  live  goes  from  me. 

I  have  lain 
Dull  and  out-worn 

with  some  strange,  subtle  sickness. 
Who  shall  say 

That  love  is  not  the  very  root  of  this, 
O  thou  afar? 

Yet  she  was  near  me, 

that  eternal  deep. 
O  it  is  passing  strange  that  love 
Can  blow  two  ways  across  one  soul. 

And  I  was  Aengus  for  a  thousand  years, 
And  she,  the  ever-living,  moved  with  me 
And  strove  amid  the  waves,  and 

would  not  go. 




"  Far  buon  tempo  e  trionfare  " 

HAVE  put  my  days  and  dreams  out  of  mind  " 
For  all  their  hurry  and  their  weary  fret 
Availed  me  little.    But  another  kind 
Of  leaf  that's  fast  in  some  more  sombre  wind, 
Is  man  on  life,  and  all  our  tenuous  courses 
Wind  and  unwind  as  vainly. 

I  have  lived  long,  and  died, 

Yea  I  have  been  dead,  right  often, 

And  have  seen  one  thing : 

The  sun,  while  he  is  high,  doth  light  our  wrong 

And  none  can  break  the  darkness  with  a  song. 

To-day's  the  cup.    To-morrow  is  not  ours : 
Nay,  by  our  strongest  bands  we  bind  her  not, 
Nor  all  our  fears  and  our  anxieties 
Turn  her  one  leaf  or  hold  her  scimitar. 

The  deed  blots  out  the  thought 

And  many  thoughts,  the  vision ; 

And  right's  a  compass  with  as  many  poles 

As  there  are  points  in  her  circumference, 

'Tis  vain  to  seek  to  steer  all  courses  even, 

And  all  things  save  sheer  right  are  vain  enough. 

The  blade  were  vain  to  grow  save  toward  the  sun, 

And  vain  th'  attempt  to  hold  her  green  forever. 

All  things  in  season  and  no  thing  o'er  long! 
Love  and  desire  and  gain  and  good  forgetting, 
Thou  canst  not  stay  the  wheel,  hold  none  too  long ! 


HOW  our  modernity, 
Nerve-wracked  and  broken,  turns 
Against  time's  way  and  all  the  way  of  things, 
Crying  with  weak  and  egoistic  cries ! 

All  things  are  given  over, 
Only  the  restless  will 
Surges  amid  the  stars 
Seeking  new  moods  of  life, 
New  permutations. 

See,  and  the  very  sense  of  what  we  know 
Dodges  and  hides  as  in  a  sombre  curtain 
Bright  threads  leap  forth,  and  hide,  and  leave  no 


I  THOUGHT  I  had  put  Love  by  for  a  time 
And  I  was  glad,  for  to  me  his  fair  face 
Is  like  Pain's  face. 

A  little  light, 

The  lowered  curtain  and  the  theatre ! 
And  o'er  the  frail  talk  of  the  inter-act 
Something  that  broke  the  jest !  A  little  light, 
The  gold,  and  half  the  profile ! 

The  whole  face 

Was  nothing  like  you,  yet  that  image  cut 
Sheer  through  the  moment. 


I  have  gone  seeking-  for  you  in  the  twilight, 

Here  in  the  flurry  of  Fifth  Avenue, 

Here  where  they  pass  between  their  teas  and  teas. 

Is  it  such  madness?  though  you  could  not  be 

Ever  in  all  that  crowd,  no  gown 

Of  all  their  subtle  sorts  could  be  your  gown. 

Yet  I  am  fed  with  faces,  is  there  one 
That  even  in  the  half-light  mindeth  me. 



TIS  Evanoe's, 
A  house  not  made  with  hands, 
But  out  somewhere  beyond  the  worldly  ways 
Her  gold  is  spread,  above,  around,  inwoven, 
Strange  ways  and  walls  are  fashioned  out  of  it. 

And  I  have  seen  my  Lady  in  the  sun, 

Her  hair  was  spread  about,  a  sheaf  of  wings, 

And  red  the  sunlight  was,  behind  it  all. 

And  I  have  seen  her  there  within  her  house, 
With  six  great  sapphires  hung  along  the  wall, 
Low,  panel-shaped,  a-level  with  her  knees, 
And  all  her  robe  was  woven  of  pale  gold. 

There  are  there  many  rooms  and  all  of  gold, 
Of  woven  walls  deep  patterned,  of  email, 
Of  beaten  work ;  and  through  the  claret  stone, 
Set  to  some  weaving,  comes  the  aureate  light. 


Here  am  I  come  perforce  my  love  of  her, 

Behold  mine  adoration 

Maketh  me  clear,  and  there  are  powers  in  this 

Which,  played  on  by  the  virtues  of  her  soul, 

Break  down  the  four-square  walls  of  standing  time. 



>r"TMS  not  a  game  that  plays  at  mates  and  mating, 

J_    Proven£e  knew ; 

Tis  not  a  game  of  barter,  lands  and  houses, 
Provenge  knew. 

We  who  are  wise  beyond  your  dream  of  wisdom, 
Drink  our  immortal  moments;  we  "pass  through." 
We  have  gone  forth  beyond  your  bonds  and  borders, 
Provence  knew ; 

And  all  the  tales  they  ever  writ  of  Oisin 
Say  but  this : 

That  man  doth  pass  the  net  of  days  and  hours. 
Where  time  is  shrivelled  down  to  time's  seed  corn 
We  of  the  Ever-living,  in  that  light 
Meet  through  our  veils  and  whisper,  and  of  love. 

O  smoke  and  shadow  of  a  darkling  world, 
Barters  of  passion,  and  that  tenderness 
That's  but  a  sort  of  cunning !  O  my  Love, 
These,  and  the  rest,  and  all  the  rest  we  knew. 

Tis  not  a  game  that  plays  at  mates  and  mating, 
'Tis  not  a  game  of  barter,  lands  and  houses, 
'Tis  not  "  of  days  and  nights  "  and  troubling  years, 
Of  cheeks  grown  sunken  and  glad  hair  gone  gray ; 
There  is  the  subtler  music,  the  clear  light 

Where  time  burns  back  about  th'  eternal  embers. 
We  are  not  shut  from  all  the  thousand  heavens : 
Lo,  there  are  many  gods  whom  we  have  seen, 
Folk  of  unearthly  fashion,  places  splendid, 
Bulwarks  of  beryl  and  of  chrysophrase. 

Sapphire  Benacus,  in  thy  mists  and  thee 
Nature  herself  's  turned  metaphysical, 
Who  can  look  on  that  blue  and  not  believe? 

Thou  hooded  opal,  thou  eternal  pearl, 

0  thou  dark  secret  with  a  shimmering  floor, 
Through  all  thy  various  mood  I  know  thee  mine ; 

If  I  have  merged  my  soul,  or  utterly 
Am  solved  and  bound  in,  through  aught  here  on  earth, 
There  canst  thou  find  me,  O  thou  anxious  thou, 
Who  call'st  about  my  gates  for  some  lost  me ; 

1  say  my  soul  flowed  back,  became  translucent. 
Search  not  my  lips,  O  Love,  let  go  my  hands, 
This  thing  that  moves  as  man  is  no  more  mortal. 
If  thou  hast  seen  my  shade  sans  character, 

If  thou  hast  seen  that  mirror  of  all  moments, 
That  glass  to  all  things  that  o'ershadow  it, 
Call  not  that  mirror  me,  for  I  have  slipped 
Your  grasp,  I  have  eluded. 



OW  will  this  beauty,  when  I  am  far  hence, 
Sweep  back  upon  me  and  engulf  my  mind ! 

How  will  these  hours,  when  we  twain  are  gray, 
Turned  in  their  sapphire  tide,  come  flooding  o'er  us ! 

49  E 



LET  us  build  here  an  exquisite  friendship, 
The  flame,  the  autumn,  and  the  green  rose  of  love 
Fought  out  their  strife  here,  'tis  a  place  of  wonder ; 
Where  these  have  been,  meet  'tis,  the  ground  is  holy. 



Her  grave,  sweet  haughtiness 

Pleaseth  me,  and  in  like  wise 

Her  quiet  ironies. 

Others  are  beautiful,  none  more,  some  less. 

I    SUPPOSE,  when  poetry  comes  down  to  facts, 
When  our  souls  are  returned  to  the  gods 

and  the  spheres  they  belong  in, 
Here  in  the  every-day  where  our  acts 
Rise  up  and  judge  us ; 

I  suppose  there  are  a  few  dozen  verities 
That  no  shift  of  mood  can  shake  from  us : 

One  place  where  we'd  rather  have  tea 
(Thus  far  hath  modernity  brought  us) 
"Tea"  (Damn you!) 

Have  tea,  damn  the  Caesars, 

Talk  of  the  latest  success,  give  wing  to  some  scandal, 
Garble  a  name  we  detest,  and  for  prejudice? 
Set  loose  the  whole  consummate  pack 

to  bay  like  Sir  Roger  de  Coverley's 

This  our  reward  for  our  works, 

sic  crescit  gloria  mundi : 

Some  circle  of  not  more  than  three 

that  we  prefer  to  play  up  to, 

Some  few  whom  we'd  rather  please 

than  hear  the  whole  aegrum  vulgus 
Splitting  its  beery  jowl 

a-meaowling  our  praises. 

Some  certain  peculiar  things, 

cari  laresque,  penates, 
Some  certain  accustomed  forms, 

the  absolute  unimportant. 



YOU  away  high  there, 

you  that  lean 
From  amber  lattices  upon  the  cobalt  night, 
I  am  below  amid  the  pine  trees, 
Amid  the  little  pine  trees,  hear  me ! 

"  The  jester  walked  in  the  garden." 

Did  he  so? 

Well,  there's  no  use  your  loving  me 
That  way,  Lady ; 
For  I've  nothing  but  songs  to  give  you. 

I  am  set  wide  upon  the  world's  ways 
To  say  that  life  is,  some  way,  a  gay  thing, 

But  you  never  string  two  days  upon  one  wire 
But  there'll  come  sorrow  of  it. 

And  I  loved  a  love  once, 
Over  beyond  the  moon  there, 

I  loved  a  love  once, 
And,  may  be,  more  times, 

But  she  danced  like  a  pink  moth  in  the  shrubbery. 

Oh,  I  know  you  women  from  the  "  other  folk," 
And  it'll  all  come  right, 
O'  Sundays. 

"The  jester  walked  in  the  garden." 

Did  he  so? 




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The  Observer  says: — "It  is  something:,  after  all,  intangible  and 
indescribable  that  makes  the  real  poetry.  Criticism  and  praise  alike 
give  no  idea  of  it  Everyone  who  pretends  to  know  it  when  he 
sees  it,  should  read  and  keep  this  little  book." 

The  Bookman : — "  No  new  book  of  poems  for  years  past  has  had 
such  a  freshness  of  inspiration,  such  a  strongly  individual  note,  or 
been  more  alive  with  undoubtable  promise." 

The  Daily  Chronicle: — "  All  his  poems  are  like  this,  trom  begin 
ning  to  end,  and  in  every  way,  his  own,  and  in  a  world  of  his  own. 
For  brusque  intensity  of  effect  we  can  hardly  compare  them  to  any 
other  work.  It  is  the  old  miracle  that  cannot  be  defined,  nothing 
more  than  a  subtle  entanglement  of  words,  so  that  they  rise  out 
of  their  graves  and  sing." 

From  a  3^  page  detailed  critique,  by  Mr.  Edward  Thomas,  in 

The  English  Review. — "He  has  .  .  .  hardly  any  of  the  superficial 
good  qualities  of  modern  versifiers ;  .  .  .  He  has  not  the  current 
melancholy  or  resignation  or  unwillingness  to  live ;  nor  the  kind 
of  feeling  for  nature  that  runs  to  minute  description  and  decorative 
metaphor.  He  cannot  be  usefully  compared  with  any  living  writers ; 
.  .  .  full  of  personality  and  with  such  power  to  express  it,  that  from 
the  first  to  the  last  lines  of  most  of  his  poems  he  holds  us  steadily 
in  his  own  pure,  grave,  passionate  world.  .  .  .  The  beauty  of  it 
('In  praise  of  Ysolt')  is  the  beauty  of  passion,  sincerity  and  in 
tensity,  not  of  beautiful  words  and  images  and  suggestions ;  .  .  . 
the  thought  dominates  the  words  and  is  greater  than  they  are. 
Here  ('  Idyl  for  Glaucus ')  the  effect  is  full  of  human  passion  and 
natural  magic,  without  any  of  the  phrases  which  a  reader  of  modern 
verse  would  expect  in  the  treatment  of  such  a  subject.  This  admir 
able  poet.  .  .  * 

The  Oxford  Magazine:— "This  is  a  most  exciting  book  of 

The  Evening  Standard:— "A  queer  little  book  which  will  irritate 
many  readers. " 

The  Morning  Post:— "Mr.  Ezra  Pound  .  .  .  immediately  com 
pels  our  admiration  by  his  fearlessness  and  lack  of  self-conscious 

The  Isis  (Oxford) :— "  This  book  has  about  it  the  breath  of  the 
open  air,  .  .  .  physically  and  intellectually  the  verse  seems  to 
reproduce  the  personality  with  a  brief  fulness  and  adequacy.  It  is 
only  in  flexible,  lithe  measures,  such  as  those  which  Coventry 
Patmore  chose  in  his  '  Unknown  Eros,'  and  Mr.  Pound  chooses 
here  that  a  fully  suitable  form  for  the  recital  of  spiritual  experience 
is  to  be  found.  Mr.  Pound  has  a  true  and  invariable  feeling-  for  the 
measures  he  employs  .  .  .  this  wonderful  little  book.  ..." 

The  Daily  Telegraph-.—"  A  poet  with  individuality Thread 

of  true  beauty.  .  .  .  lifts  it  out  of  the  ruck  of  those  many  volumes, 
the  writers  of  which  toe  the  line  of  poetic  convention,  and  please 
for  no  more  than  a  single  reading." 

Mr.  Punch,  concerning  a  certain  Mr.  Ezekiel  Ton :— "  By  far  the 

failed,  in  evolving  a  blend  of  the  imagery  of  the  unfettered  west, 
the  vocabulary  of  Wardour  Street,  and  the  sinister  abandon  of 
Borgaic  Italy." 

Mr.  Scott-James,  in  The  Daily  Nevos : — "At  first  the  whole  thing- 
may  seem  to  be  mere  madness  and  rhetoric,  a  vain  exhibition  of 
force  and  passion  without  beauty.  But,  as  we  read  on,  these 
curious  metres  of  his  seem  to  have  a  law  and  order  ot  their  own ; 
the  brute  force  of  Mr.  Pound's  imagination  seems  to  impart  some 
quality  of  infectious  beauty  to  his  words.  .  .  .  With  Mr.  Pound 
there  is  no  eking  out  of  thin  sentiment  with  a  melody  or  a  song-. 
He  writes  out  of  an  exuberance  of  incontinently  struggling  ideas 
and  passionate  convictions.  .  .  .  He  plunges  straight  into  the  heart 
of  his  theme,  and  suggests  virility  in  action  combined  with  fierce 
ness,  eagerness,  and  tenderness.  .  .  .  he  has  individuality,  passion, 
force,  and  an  acquaintance  with  things  that  are  profoundly  mov 
ing."  Mr.  Scott-James  begins  his  half-column  review  of  Mr. 
Pound's  book  with  a  remark  that  he  would  "Like  much  more 
space  in  which  to  discuss  his  work,"  and  also  notes  a  certain  use 
of  spondee  and  dactyl  which  "  Comes  in  strangely  and,  as  we  first 
read  it,  with  the  appearance  of  discord,  but  afterwards  seems  to 
grain  a  curious  and  distinctive  vigour." 




Choicely  Printed  at  the  Chisiuick  Press  on  fine 
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The  Spectator  says: — "Mr.  Ezra  Pound  is  that  rare  thing 
among  modern  poets — a  scholar.  He  is  not  only  cultivated  but 
learned.  .  .  .  We  feel  that  this  writer  has  in  him  the  capacity  for 
remarkable,  poetic  achievement.  .  .  .  His  virility  and  passion  are 
immense.  He  strikes  us  as  a  little  too  bookish  and  literary,  even 
when  he  is  most  untrammelled  by  metrical  conventions.  It  is  un 
gracious  to  carp  at  work  which  in  itself  is  so  fine.  For  the  rest 
Mr.  Pound's  merits  are  singularly  clear.  The  '  Ballad  of  the 
Goodly  Fere,'  a  wonderful  presentation  of  Christ,  haunts  our 
memory,  so  does  the  savage  sestina  which  contains  the  reflections 
of  Bertram  de  Born.  Admirable,  too,  is  the  strange  soliloquy 
'  Pierre  Vidal  Old."  Mr.  Pound  has  flute-notes  as  well,  as  can  be 
seen  from  'The  Portrait'  and  the  lovely  'Night  Litany.'  If  he 
has  defects  he  has  at  any  rate  the  true  and  brimming  inspiration." 

The  Tablet :— "  Mr.  Pound  is  sometimes  Celtic ;  he  has  the  love 
of  out-of-the-way  legends,  and  his  high  authority  in  Provencal 
literature  and  lore  is  made  evident  on  nearly  every  page." 

The  English  Review. — "Mr.  Pound  is  a  poet  whom  we  have 
already  welcomed.  We  should  be  inclined  to  say  that  of  our 
younger  poets  he  is  the  most  alive,  as  he  is  the  most  rugged,  the 
most  harsh,  and  the  most  wrong-headed.  The  quality  of  his 
thought,  his  very  thoughts  themselves,  are  apt  to  be  obscured  by 
the  derivative  nature  of  his  language.  But  he  uses  his  language 
with  such  force,  hammering  as  it  were  word  into  word,  that  we 
can  have  no  doubt  as  to  his  vitality.  And  this  is  a  quality  too  rare 
in  the  poet  of  to-day — a  quality  so  valuable  that  we  are  perfectly 
ready  to  pardon  whole  bushelsful  of  imperfections." 

The  Observer: — "One  is  glad  to  welcome  another  volume  ot 
most  delicate  verse  from  Mr.  Ezra  Pound,  whose  '  Personae '  had 

a  charm  of  fancy  and  finish  that  has  carried  it  to  a  high  degree  of 
success.  It  is  quite  safe  to  say  that  few  new  poets  have  so  quickly 
become  known  to  literary  London. . . .  Mr.  Pound  is  no  poetaster." 

The  New  Age : — "One  must  agree  that  there  is  in  Mr.  Pound's 
new  book  a  rift  of  real,  though  vague,  beauty,  impalpable  gold." 

The  Nation : — "  If  Mr.  Pound  will  go  on  with  the  development 
in  method  shown  in  this  latest  volume,  he  will  add  to  English 
poetry  something  which  is  unusual  riches." 


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